


Of Tattoos and Possession

by missbeizy



Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: M/M, RPF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-14
Updated: 2014-12-14
Packaged: 2018-03-01 09:29:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2768144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missbeizy/pseuds/missbeizy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Getting the Fellowship tattoos marks the beginning of the end of Sean’s resistance to his attraction to Elijah.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Tattoos and Possession

I'm not sure how many beers we'd had by the time Orlando suggested getting matching tattoos. There was slurred argument about what it should be--argument that, in the end, gathered the opinions of half the pub patrons and both bartenders.

It seems the idea had been discussed between Viggo and Orli for weeks now. And, of course, jumping into the car and finding the nearest tattoo parlor was particularly appealing halfway through a third round of Guinness. 

Dom and Billy agreed that it should be something Tolkien-ish; something that would identify us all as "The Fellowship." Getting a tattoo in English would fall short of that sentiment, but none of us could come up with a simple symbol or picture that would pull it off, either.

"No, no," Orli argued, sloshing beer on the table. "It's got to be like, something secret, you know? Something we'll only understand, man, it's got to be."

Elijah was into the idea, but less vocal about it; I think it was because he wasn't as drunk as the rest of us. I normally stayed at least halfway sober as well, but for some reason, felt like joining in on the fun that night.

Being drunk--or at least almost there, as I said--made it easier to stare at Elijah and not feel guilty about it. I sat next to him like always, my eyes turning soft circles over his body and face when he wasn't looking. 

I silently grappled with the mixture of violent lust and overwhelming tenderness I felt for him; but it was guilt in my chest, finally, because thinking about that had to be wrong. Not supposed to think of the boy like that. Not supposed to think of a co-worker like that.

Tempting, though, I had to admit, doing that sort of thinking. He provided such a splash of innocent youth across the page; friendly, energetic, dedicated. And at the same time there were adult secrets behind it all--behind the buttons of his shirt, behind the stitches along the seam of his faded jeans. And those eyes, as expressive and brilliant as they were, kept things from you.

It seemed to be a natural impulse to want to take that sparkling innocence--so much like charged, fuzzy noise--and shake it and mold it and bend it to your will. And how I wanted to! I wanted to grab him and push him back into the hallway near the men's bathroom and tear his clothes off his compact, boyish body; I wanted to bruise that flushed-carnation colored mouth with mine until he begged me to stop. 

The alcohol helped the fantasy along as the pub went whirling loudly around us, hazy with cigarette smoke and reeking of beer. I closed my eyes for just a moment. 

My leg was touching his, simply because we sat close together in the booth, and I imagined stretching my hand over and squeezing my hand down his thigh. I imagined a ticklish reaction if I were to close my hand over his knee and press. I imagined him stiffening if, on the way back up his thigh, my fingertips would fall inward and move up the inseam of his pants.

But that was the softcore thought. In the pub's back hallway of my mind, there stood an Elijah desperate and begging for my caresses; an Elijah given to frantic groping--an Elijah I had never seen and had no proof of actually existing. I was biting and kissing my way down this Elijah’s chest. I obsessed over the part of his stomach just below his bellybutton, loving the feel of his breathing. I placed a soft bite against the fleshy side of his hip. I tried to imagine what his whimpers might sound like. Fantasy Elijah always whimpered so nicely.

When I opened my eyes, the pub was the same around me, minus a member or two of the Fellowship that had gone off to dance.

"You alright, Astin?"

I looked up at Elijah, my body throbbing from the fantasy, and smiled.

"Mm," I replied. "I think I've had too many."

He had reached the point of intoxication where he got lethargic; when the beer's effect started to wane. I loved when it got to that, because he seemed even riper for ravishing when he was drowsy.

"We should get going," I said. "It's late." 

He nodded absently and started to gather his keys and his cell-phone.

My mind floated back to my urges, and particularly to the second half of them: the tenderness. I left the back hallway of my mind where fantasy Elijah was doing wickedly enjoyable things with his tongue to my left nipple. To feel that tenderness, I didn’t have to look any farther than the Elijah right in front of me. 

That emotion came around times like this. When he was sitting more slumped than usual, all wide, sleepy eyes and wobbly smiles. He seemed almost sad. But I knew he was just tired from the long hours we spent shooting. I knew that, at times, our weekend excursions lasted a little longer and played out a little harder than he might have preferred.

And that feeling made me want to stroke him from head to foot; smooth back the hair from his temples, warm him up nice and slow, and watch the near-invisible changes in him as he accepted touch after touch from my roving hands.

In the end it all came down to one thing, whether the cloak thrown over it was violent or gentle: arousal. I was becoming ever more obsessed with wanting to see him aroused. I got ghostly imitations of that state when I saw what he was like when excited or angry--both on and off camera. But I wanted more. I wanted to hear my name on his lips; I wanted to feel his pulse race.

So I ran myself in desperate, mental circles--searching for these pretty descriptions of lust like winks of gold vein in rock, until the time with him ran out and the night was over. It was like coming out of a fog, leaving him or watching him leave. Every time he disappeared, he took a huge chunk of me with him. It was getting harder to say goodnight.

And of course, it never went anywhere between us. I didn't expect it to. I didn’t even expect him to notice it. I was a schoolboy chasing some unavailable classmate across the playground and around the monkey bars, all over again. 

It was strange, though, that sort of de-aged feeling you get when you have an unhealthy obsession with someone. That’s the kind of attraction you abandon by the end of high school, at least. And the fact that it had nowhere to go only perpetuated it; only made it seem more and more appealing. So fucking predictable.

"Sean!"

I blinked.

"The driver's here," Elijah said, reaching for our jackets and then tossing me mine.

All around me the Fellowship was filing outside and into the waiting van. We hadn't bothered to designate a sober driver for the night and the bartender knew us by now, so he'd gone ahead and called it for us.

Elijah grinned at my dazed expression and tossed an arm around my neck, playfully laying a loud, smacking kiss on my cheek. 

What a British thing to do, I thought, as I briefly entertained the idea of tackling him into the backseat of the van.

"Cheer up, Sam, me dear."

Right.

*

Before they agreed to do all nine tattoos, the employees at the tattoo parlor had us take pictures with them and sign autographs to be hung on the wall above the mirrors. They were dead excited about it.

For our part, we just hoped they would get the Elvish number "9" right. Hell, we had gone to great lengths to check the books, and had even consulted Christopher Lee before going ahead with it.

I’ll admit, though, that getting a tattoo seemed like much less fun without beer in your system. I was just a little uncomfortable. I wanted to get the tattoo, though, and besides—I would _never_ live it down if I wussed out in front of the whole gang.

We waited for them to make stencils of the shape and select the right shades of black or blue that we all wanted, and then went in pairs to get it done. (Needless to say, I went in with Elijah.)

The antiseptic smell of rubbing alcohol assaulted me as I stepped inside the brightly-lit room. A big burly guy--with a New Zealand accent so think I could barely understand him--was opening up a fresh needle.

The whole room was intimidating and spiky, and I wasn't too sure how credible it was. Who picked the place, anyway? Dom, answered Elijah. Oh dear. I tried in vain to remember the various types of diseases you could get from shoddy tattoo application.

"You look green around the edges," Elijah observed.

"Do not."

"Do too."

"Shut up, Frodo."

"Want me to go first?"

"...Yeah."

"Thought so."

I smirked and swatted his arm and he flopped into the parlor chair like it was a lazy-boy. He kept making squelchy mock-pained faces at me in between discussing the tattoo and the needle with the artist.

*

He chose to get the tattoo on the flat of his right hip.

Oh, my God. Fuck. Holy fucking... Damnit.

I prayed for release as I stood there in the annoyingly pastel-yellow light of the tattoo parlor. My fingers were on Elijah's shoulder as he winced and twitched under the artist's needle.

Another preview, I thought dismally, while his eyelids twitched and his hips shifted at the oddest angle on the reclined chair.

That was quite possibly the sexiest place I could ever imagine a tattoo on his body. I hadn’t even thought of where he might get it. I hadn’t even thought tattoos were attractive until this very moment.

He had been under the needle for a while now, his jeans undone around his thighs, and his boxers pushed down as far as they could go on his pelvis without exposing himself.

My eyes fixed on the line of those boxers, where it cut into his pale flesh; where, if I looked hard enough, I could see the dark hair that just might be pubic hair; and if I didn't get out of the room in ten seconds, I was going to have to sit down with a magazine over my crotch.

"Ow. Ow ow ow. OW."

I snickered at him, hiding entirely my racing thoughts.

"Be brave, Ringbearer."

"Fuck you, Sean," he said sweetly.

I laughed and was tempted to say, "Name the time." But I thought better of it.

I watched his fingers grip the armrest and then sighed. 

Bloody hell. Need a nap. Too old for this.

By the time it was done and the bandage had been applied, I was shaking with urges. It was all I could do to stand him getting flocked around in the waiting room by our gang, showing it off and pretending like it hadn't hurt at all. And I had no time to go over to him, because I was being tugged inside to get tattooed myself.

*

"It's fine. I've just got to keep the gauze on."

"Why get a tattoo when you know how much a bother it would be when getting in and out of costume?"

"Oh, bugger off," Elijah said with raised, playful indignity.

The extra Elijah had been chatting with grinned at the Briticism and trotted off to get out of his orc latex. I had been watching the two from afar.

"Is your tattoo alright?"

He looked up at me as I walked over.

"It fucking burns," he grumbled.

I tilted my head and got an idea. Without so much as a word, I steered him towards the kitchen trailer. It was empty, thankfully, as a lot of filming was being done. Elijah and me were finished for the day.

From the freezer, I pulled one of those cheap ice packs that seemed to be in abundance onset, and waggled it at him.

He was leaning on the kitchen counter, with his sweatpants pushed down off the tattoo, poking around the edges of the gauze and then lifting it to look at the scabbed and healing mark. He crinkled his nose a bit.

I walked over, and in the wake of some rush of stupidity, laid the ice pack over the gauze and the entire area of his pelvis with my own hand instead of giving the pack directly to him.

He blinked up at me, and I'm not sure whether it was the surprise from the cold, the press of my hand, or both, but he looked quite shocked for a split-second.

It was strange, standing there so close, the edges of my fingertips touching the skin of his hip around the icepack, and the way my hand was slowly going numb; and how I didn't care if it turned blue and fell off my wrist as long as I could go on being this close to him forever. Not normal to do this for someone. Hm.

Being so near to him was a whole mess of things together; his breathing, the smell and temperature of it; his movement, the way he never seemed to be able to stay entirely still; his looks, how flat-out beautiful he was; those eyes, the way they quivered and swiveled as they stared, punching figurative holes through the back of my skull.

But fuck--no matter how many times we were smooshed together, had to tackle each other, or nearly faked kissing each other, honest-to-God physical intimacy between us never ceased to torment me.

We weren't talking, but there was the idea in my head that if we kept on not talking, the situation would become something not exactly normal. The silence was louder than any noise.

"That's better," he said, his voice catching oddly on the first word. He cleared his throat.

I wanted to take away my hand for the sake of politeness, but my hand wasn’t listening to reason. That hand wanted to drop the fucking numbing ice pack and wrap around that hip and drag that pelvis against mine. 

"I think we have some back at home," I offered; my voice just as low and unsteady as his.

He pursed his lips inward, worked them together, and nodded. His eyes ticked up to mine, which almost undid me. They were magnets, those pools of navy--very dark at the moment--and I almost hated that it wasn't possible to look away without feeling like I had been rudely staring. 

"Thanks," he said in an undertone, staring at the icepack. He made the slightest movement to pull up the front of his sweatpants. 

That was my cue to back the hell up. And I did, suddenly, without looking too desperate, I hoped--but probably not succeeding along those lines.

He mumbled something about lunch and was gone seconds later, leaving me standing there with a numb left hand and a lead ball in the pit of my stomach.

*

We sat at my kitchen table in Wellington; the surface covered with pages of script that threatened to overtake our lunch plates at any moment.

We had spent the afternoon going through whole scenes, working out our respective accents, and discussing the book as well as the emphasis that we tried to put on certain things taken from the text itself. One line could be said ten different ways before it came out sounding the way Peter wanted it to. So preparation was key. And since things kept falling back on the ideas in the book or the tone of the book, well—it was a handy reference.

At one point, working on the Osgiliath scene, we took up a vague imitation of our positions; he sat on the floor against the cupboard and I just off to the side in the same spot.

He shook his head, Frodo leaping up in his eyes and his chest.

“I can’t do this, Sam…”

“I know. It’s all wrong. By rights we shouldn’t even be here. But we are. It’s like in the great stories, Mr. Frodo. The ones that really mattered—”

We stopped suddenly, because I’d messed up the accent.

“No, no, it’s like, at the end…maahttered…”

“Yeah, I know. Shit. I hate those vowels,” I said, chuckling. “Okay, okay. Again.”

And finally the last lines of the dialogue:

“What are we holding on to, Sam?” 

I moved over to him, crawling—Sam was so weary, after all, but so very determined and proud as ever a hobbit could be—and helped him up.

Instead of saying my line, “That there’s some good in this world, Mr. Frodo. And it’s worth fighting for,” I found my throat filled with the desire to say, “Each other, Mr. Frodo.”

But that was silly. I paused, forced myself to remember the line, and Sam’s sadness and love of his best friend washed over me. I felt the tears at the corners of my eyes and said the correct line.

His eyes grew glassy as he looked at me. We were lost in the moment again; so easily falling into that fictional place, with our gazes playing off each other, and the whole meaning of what Sam and Frodo were doing socked us in the gut.

The moment broke and we remembered we were only rehearsing. He laughed breathlessly, sniffling and wiping his eyes.

“How do you _do_ that?” he asked.

“I could ask you the same. But I think we both know.”

“I guess so. This stuff is just…damn. Powerful.”

I put my hand on the back of his neck and led us back to the table. We recovered from the emotional dialogue and then I suggested a break so we could finish eating. 

Elijah ran to the bathroom to check his tattoo. It was mostly healed by now; the first brush with possible infection had been avoided.

He wandered back in, grinning, though his eyes were still a bit red. “I love this tattoo. It was a fantastic idea, the Elvish thing. Everyone was very impressed.”

I snorted. “Well, yeah. They expected us to get something like ‘Tolkien Rules!’ or ‘Frodo Lives’!”

He laughed and fell into his chair. “I know. Oh, but we are far more sophisticated…”

I raised an eyebrow.

His expression deadpanned. “Alright. It _was_ Viggo’s idea.”

“It sure was.”

“I’ve got eighteen paper cuts,” he moaned, holding up his hands and glaring at the table.

“Want to stop?”

“Yes, please.”

We wandered into the living room. He looked at the Playstation console. I looked at him. He shook his head.

“The only thing we haven’t bothered to beat is Spyro, and quite frankly? Down that road lies doubt of manhood.”

I laughed and sat down on the couch. “Well, regardless of your manhood, I don’t feel like playing anything at the moment.”

He flopped down and draped his ankles over my lap.

“Me either. This is so weird. Having an afternoon off, I mean.”

I laid my head back and tried not to think about the warm weight of his calves.

“Mm.”

Silence. It was very warm in the room all the sudden. But I was used to that. Hands tied, as always. I peeked at him; he was almost asleep there, it looked like.

“It’s better?” I queried, my eyes moving to his hip.

He immediately pushed the waistband of his pants down, as he so often did to peek at the dark mark. I looked, too, pretending to be interested in it, when really I just wanted to see the skin around it.

“Looks nice…all healed up. Smooth. It was nasty there for a while.”

He took my hand and put my fingertips on it. “Yeah, see? You can barely tell the different between the ink and the skin now.”

Horrified that he might see how my breathing changed, I moved my fingertips tentatively over the spot; and then--“accidentally”--my pinky and ring finger brushed the side of his hip. All this time I was careful not to raise my eyes to his.

Can’t do this. Fucking stupid. Where do you think it’s going? Stop already. He should smack you. _You_ should smack you.

Smiling and giving an attempt at a paternal nod, I drew up the sweatpants onto his hip and took my hand away.

He was staring at me with an expression that bordered on amusement. I made a kind of sheepish face back at him, all playful. He smiled and then closed his eyes, relaxing again.

*

Our Saturday night movie-marathon, dedicated to documentaries involving Tolkien or Lord of the Rings, was somewhat interrupted when a cheesy slasher movie “accidentally” fell into the pile that featured distinguished pieces and British narrators.

All accusation turned to Billy, who exclaimed loudly when the tape came on:

“Oh, would you look at that, now! Terrible misfortune, if I do say so m’self, why that was a fine piece of melodramatic—”

Elijah chucked a pillow at his head and it bounced off.

“…impressive, and entertaining sixty minutes of English countryside.”

The room, filled with at least six of the nine Fellowship members, roared with laughter and then went to great lengths to draw comical comparison between the slasher movie and Rings.

“That guy, well. He looks sort of like an orc.”

“That’s just a piece of flayed skin across his head.”

“Same difference. Don’t be so narrow-minded, Lijah.”

And on and on it went, without any of us really paying attention to the movie so much as continuing to think up outrageous links between the two movies.

Several other tapes of similar “quality” cropped up between A&E Biographies and TLC Documentaries. By the time we exhausted our pile of movies, half the guys were asleep on the floor amidst blankets and pillows.

Elijah and me had the couch. I was sitting comfortably, my left arm along the back of the sofa, my legs out in front of me. The light from the television was making me kind of drowsy, actually, and I thought I might just let my head back and sleep for a bit. Elijah was just as still, after all, so perhaps he would do the same.

I didn’t realize I was asleep until I woke up. I had no idea how much time had gone by, and a pile of blanket was blocking the VCR clock. Probably wouldn’t have made a difference; I think it was still blinking twelve.

The feeling of lost time bugged me as always, and I lamented jokingly my advanced age as the cause for the sudden dropping off to sleep. The television light bathed the still, silent room in a pale blue light. We hadn’t stopped the last tape, so the screen had gone blue ages ago. I could see lumps of people all around the floor beneath blankets.

I felt I was breathing too loudly for the quiet, and went to shift my arm, which for some reason was very heavy and most assuredly asleep.

As I moved it, I saw why it was so heavy. Elijah was leaning back into it; tucked to my side, in fact, with his head on my upper arm.

The light coming off the television bathed his milky skin in blue, illuminating the shimmer of wetness just inside his dropped-open bottom lip. I sighed throatily and fought down the sharp rush that rose in the pit of my stomach.

I tried to extract myself without disturbing him. It would be fine, but for the part where I had to lift his head and put it back down--that would definitely wake him up.

Just when I got myself halfway out from under him, he made some sleepy noise and brought his arm up, circling my waist and gripping my shirt to pull me back. He fidgeted and pushed his nose and face up against my neck.

I closed my eyes and sat back against the cushions. Just enjoy it, then, I thought to myself. Just don’t move. It’s not your fault.

Oh, Elijah…

I wished he would wake up. I felt like doing something insane like kissing him in his sleep. I wondered how asleep he was…would he feel it? But that wouldn’t help with the desires in me, no, not really.

I knew instantly, though, when he woke up. Since his mouth and nose was on my neck, more or less, I could feel the change in his breathing from sleeping to conscious. I was all set to move, but he just stayed there.

The silence thickened and it felt awkward beyond words; both of us aware of how awake we were and not wanting to move. His hand was still limp against my shirt, and at length I felt his fingers spread and flatten softly there.

I closed my eyes, warmth flushing underneath my skin in repetitive, oppressive waves. His fingers moved with such careful, slow speed that I barely noticed. I felt his hot hand slide on mine and quite unexpectedly he slipped his fingers under my fingers and let it rest there.

Confused, I squeezed my fingers back against his, and brought my arm a little further against his shoulders.

What in the world?

His curling against me seemed a request for comfort. Comfort for what exactly I had no idea and was curious to ask, but talking felt wrong. I let the silence stretch until the heat on my skin drove me crazy.

“Elijah,” I whispered, in the tone of trying to get attention, and he shifted a little.

“Shhh,” was his only reply, and he tightened his hold on my hand. His cheek pressed, more determined, into my shoulder.

“What’s the matter?” I pressed, still whispering.

He lifted his head, and his lips whispered past my ear. “Just go to sleep...” 

The honey and gravel in his voice pooled in my stomach. And I did somehow managed to fall asleep that night, hours later, when basking in soft light and being pressed by his weighty warmth finally felt normal.

*

Elijah and I didn’t discuss the night on the couch. But often my thoughts strayed back to it, and I wondered about the strange silence and stillness of the room, and the underpinnings of sadness coming from him. I thought about the warmth and ease with which we touched—so simple to be that close under the cloak semi-darkness.

It did seem to me that we acted differently with each other afterwards. There was an open flow of friendship between us that had to do with deeper, more elusive reasons than before. In other words: we had something going. But I didn’t know what to say, or even if I should say anything, to him.

So I fell back on being the observer again, watching him as he moved by my side through costume changes, endless takes, and drawn-out rehearsal.

*

A relaxing Sunday of soccer (“Why do you Americans call it soccer, when it’s clearly played with a ball and feet and hence-- _football_?” poked Billy) left Elijah and myself on the edge of an empty hill overlooking a series of low valleys.

It was odd, to drive just a couple hours, and be isolated completely from anything man-made. The other boys, however, had long-since deserted us for the nearest pub. We decided to soak up a bit of the Middle Earth feel and walk around. 

I’ll admit, that was about as close to Sam and Frodo’s wanderings as we were going to get. And the precious time alone was golden.

“Should’ve brought a camera,” Elijah commented in a hushed voice.

We stood side-by-side, the sun inching ever closer to the horizon in front of us, casting its kaleidoscope of reds, oranges, and pinks all around. 

“Viggo would love this,” I added, agreeing.

I thought of the photos around our make-up trailer’s mirror--of how Viggo was slowly covering his mirror and ours with photos of us and drawings of anything that happened to strike him while onset. I fancied him somewhere behind us now, and thought of the picture he might get if he snapped his camera at the two of us: me bulky in a sweatshirt and jeans, Elijah willowy and fair in jeans and a sweater, both of us lined sharply by the sunset.

I wanted that picture desperately. But the moment would pass, because Viggo wasn’t here, and the only way it would be remembered would be in my thoughts. 

And all at once, feeling the secondary vastness of the sunset, and also in a mental blaze of grander things, I could feel connected to everything around me, and to Elijah especially—and it seemed to make no sense that there was a barrier between us. It seemed the final step was to take him and kiss him and see the light coming sideways through his clear eyes and watch the breeze play with his hair with my brown fingers around his cheeks.

I trembled. I felt weighted down by the desire to act on my impulses. 

Wasn’t it time to say something? Wasn’t this kind of stupid?

“Why did you grab my hand that night?” I blurted out without giving myself time to think about how to say what I wanted to.

We weren’t looking at each other and it stayed that way, while we kept on staring down the gentle incline of the hill. He didn’t move or do anything otherwise to indicate he heard me.

I winced. “Sorry. Look, forget it. It was nosy of me to ask.”

I couldn’t exactly see his face, as the mixture of glare from the sun and his hair tossed against his jaw blocked my view. He had his hands dug deep into his pockets, and he tilted his face to look at me. He gave that confused, jumbled up sort of expression that Frodo so often used.

“I had a feeling you’d ask today,” he breathed, his tone unreadable. “Sunsets make you sappy, Sean?”

I chuckled and some of the tension in my chest drained away. “I guess so.”

He hadn’t answered the question and there was no way in hell that I was going to repeat it. If he wanted to keep his secret, he could. 

He wandered over slowly, brushing my side. And then I felt his hand, like the other night, seek my palm and clasp it lightly. 

While staring at the logo on my sweatshirt, he muttered, “Ah, Sam. That’s what you are. You’re my Sam.”

The trembling returned. I quirked a playful yet gentle smile. “Yours, am I?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” he asked, and let his thumb pass along the back of my hand.

“I don’t rightly know what you mean,” I said honestly.

“You talk to much, Sean.”

“What?”

“Kiss me…” he whispered, and lifted his head, which put our mouths about two inches apart.

It took about point two seconds for me to obey; all at once the hesitation collapsed and I touched my lips to his, and the trembling in me took over. I used his hold on my hand to draw him closer, but otherwise didn’t move to embrace him, choosing instead to stay that way, sealing our lips softly together.

It was as chaste a kiss as possible between us, partly because I was scared out of my mind suddenly, and partly because I felt I was too numb to make a kiss work.

When we pulled apart, his wide eyes trickled up to mine, and I felt all the wealth of my insides tense. There was confusion in both our gazes, and desire, and a whole host of things that can be described as new and swollen between us.

His fingers moved and then laced with my fingers. He drew close, laid his forehead on mine, and I involuntarily closed my eyes again.

“Come home with me tonight,” he commanded softly, and the words sent shivers down my body.

I don’t remember agreeing, but I also don’t think it was necessary; he knew.

*

By the time we got to his front door, his hands were all over me. We embraced tightly, fingertips going for buttons and hems, and the kisses were quick and wet. We knocked over half the stuff in the hallway, fumbling for light switches and sanity in the dark.

It was bliss, all this, his mouth taking and giving and his fingers on my back and my shoulders; bliss to feel his pulse flickering in that excited way I had always fantasized about.

And the lust was slowly overcoming the tenderness of hours before in the most complacent and agreeable sort of way. I smoothed my hands over his pale throat, up into his thick hair, touching everything in front of me, and kissing that mouth until it was dark.

We somehow made it to the bedroom, having taken out an umbrella stand and a painting in the hall before stumbling through the doorway. I was throbbing and so hard I could barely stand the restriction of my pants by the time we fell back on the bed, his thighs straddling mine.

He stretched out on top of me, and my hands went down his back, then came back full of the hem of his sweater, which was gone a second later, tossed off into the dim light of the bedroom.

Consumed inch by inch with blazing heat, I dragged him down against me, kissing and nipping his shoulders and his chest. He tasted like skin, plain and simple Elijah skin, and he flexed and moved into my body, his eyes rolling shut when my lips closed none too gently around his left nipple.

When I broke off with that, he took my shirt off and then lay back down atop me. We laid that way for a while, kissing and getting used to the feel of each other. It didn’t last long—the urgency came back, because he was between my legs, and slowly and subtly had begun to rock us together, bringing up clinches in my throat.

He rolled us over and I settled above him, making love to his throat with my mouth, slow, deep kisses that drew up blood to the surface of his skin. I loved touching him, guessing the faint movements of his fingers and limbs and belly.

He paused in suckling my earlobe to whisper, “The top drawer…get the tube…”

I blinked. His voice made the whole thing seem more real, but his words were not exactly registering. I leaned over finally, fished around the mess in the drawer and withdrew the only smooth tube I could feel.

Lubricant. Ah, shit. Hadn’t thought about that. Wait a second.

“You want to…” I trailed off, and the violence that happened between my legs threatened to undo me entirely.

He went back to kissing my throat, and I could feel his fingers on the zipper of my jeans, feel him pushing between the denim and the cotton of my briefs; not much a separation from the burning skin.

There was nothing more in the world I wanted then to bury myself in his body as deeply as I could take him, but I hadn’t thought the first time—well. Why was I arguing?

“God, yes,” he sighed against my neck, and I felt him pushing the jeans off my hips.

“Are you sure?” I pressed, suddenly nervous about it, though I wanted it at the same time, and it was very hard to think while his fingers crept under the waistband of my underwear and grasped the length of my cock.

I shuddered and the way my eyes closed and I stopped talking amused him, because he laughed softly a second later. I couldn’t concentrate at all as his fingers squeezed and tugged the tip of my erection.

He toyed with me so easily that I could have sworn he planned every motion. 

“I need you, Sean…” A pause, and his fingers drifted lower, cupping my balls and rolling themselves slowly around the hot flesh. I gave a low groan. “I’m gonna fall the fuck apart if you don’t do it.” Slow kiss against the hollow of my throat, and the cotton slid down my hips.

I helped by flicking the cloth off my ankles and then resettling against him. I laid the lubricant aside for the moment and began taking off Elijah’s pants, ducking low to kiss his belly. I licked soft trails around his bellybutton, falling to closing my teeth just around his nipples to feel him squirm as I discarded the offending denim.

Next came the boxers, with less ceremony. I paused, and stared at the tattoo on his hip, a thousand memories of lust coming back to me. I kissed the dark smudge; kissed the skin all around it, and almost as an afterthought began stroking his erection in my right hand. The tattoo was a point of obsession, but I forced myself away from it to watch his face.

Oh, now, that was lovely. That was a picture. Scratch the sunset photo idea; I wanted a Polaroid of _this_. His eyelashes cast crescent-shaped shadows down his cheeks, the light from the bedside lamp made him look drowsy and illuminated his arousal, playing soft lengths of light and dark all the way down his body.

There was the faint outline of his hardened nipples, the flushed length of chest, the quivering stomach, the smear of Elvish on his hip, and the pink flushed column of his arousal; and oh, oh God, yes, that was it; that was the look, and the look was everything I’d ever fantasized about and ten times more than that.

I moved with him as his hips rolled in opposing motions to my fist around him, and watching the muscles along his thighs clench, the pale creamy expanse of his body seeming ripe for consumption in every way I could manage it.

“Sean,” he ground out thickly. “ _Please_ …”

I thought I could almost feel the clenched need in him to be stretched and pushed and slick; and the lust rolled and stumbled over the tenderness and bumped love along the way, pooling finally at the edge of the road where my resistance ended.

As subtly as possible I uncapped the lubricant and squeezed a generous dollop on my fingers. I tried to calm him a little, stroking his stomach and hips for moments on end until he stopped squirming.

He lifted his hips eagerly, and I tore my eyes away from his face. I tucked my shoulders under the backs of his knees and lightly moved my fingers all around his balls, rubbing and pressing them out of the way, letting the lubricant warm up on my fingers.

I parted the twin halves of his ass and slowly stroked the slippery liquid around the puckered entrance there. He trembled and gave a start and bucked just once, falling silent as I teased the spot. After a time, I moved my wrist and let my fingertip halt just above the spot, then wriggled the single digit inside his body with a slow, vaguely circling motion.

His bottom lip fell as I began to move my lubricant-covered finger in and out of his body. It took hours, it seemed, working him loose, one finger becoming two, and two becoming three. He seemed to teeter on the brink at every step, his cock pointing directly at the ceiling, hips pelvis never still.

I don’t think he noticed his hands wrapped around the sheets at his sides, but I did, and the sight of those boyish hands clenched drove up the lust in me.

At a certain point, I inadvertently brushed his prostate with the tip of my middle finger. He cried out and his thighs jerked on my shoulders; recovering, he gasped a breath, trembling harder.

“Fuck, Sean…please…God that felt…” He trailed off, panting.

Hadn’t I always wanted him this way? Begging and hot and starved? Mmm, yes, indeed. 

Quickly swiping another generous squeeze of lubricant, I sat up higher and stroked the length of my erection with it, shuddering at how hard I was. I had barely noticed in my quest to drive him crazy before it even started properly.

I adjusted his legs around my hips and used my hand to guide us together. He breathed strangely as I moved the head of my cock around and around the already soft, loosened entrance.

I pushed forward slowly, feeling the initial band of muscular resistance give way. I knew I was kind of hurting him, despite all my efforts, but there was no doubt in my mind that he was enjoying every second of it. I sunk in to the hilt and stayed there, leaning forward over him slowly, my hands digging into the mattress, my breath held as the tight heat of him sent rushes over pleasure down my spine.

“Oh, God. Oh God. Jesus…”

His fingers dug into my shoulders so hard he was leaving marks. I tried to stay still as long as I could, letting him get used to the width, and feeling his body stretched and still tight as it could be around me. I knew it wouldn’t last long for either of us, but I wanted so badly to work that body with my thrusts that all other thought was quickly stifled.

I lay my elbows down on either side of the pillow beneath his head, circling his flushed face with my arms, and kissed him softly. But as I began to move, there was no concentration for kissing in either of us and I just rested my face against his shoulder.

It started slowly at first--my hips rising and falling, each time pushing myself back into his clenched body all the way up to my balls. Once I found the right angle that sent me pushing and nudging his prostate, I kept that angle, and watched each time as his body jerked and the whimpers fell from his lips.

I felt his cock bobbing against my stomach, dribbling pre-ejaculate and begging for release. I ignored it for the moment, choosing to go on fucking him real slow like this into eternity or until the house fell down around us from some natural disaster.

He gripped my arms, and his silence sprinkled with low, desperate sounds piled on my restraint. I buried my face against his neck, listening to the low throb of pulse and breath and the need to come pass between us. I felt his legs circle my hips slowly, felt his ankles cross to press me down harder into him.

I lost track of time, judging the experience then by the rushes of instability in my body. I checked our performance with sporadic speeding up and slowing down; slow and deep one moment, rapid and short the next, with my skin and his meeting the only noise in the dark, moist room. He felt so good, so fucking tight.

But gradually arousal was becoming sharp, painful need to come, and it rose up in both of us almost at the same time. He whimpered and tossed and left red marks down my back with his fingernails. 

I paused, shivering deeply to the core of my limbs, and reached between us, searching between the sweaty plane of our bellies for his cock. I wrapped my fingers around it, giving it a decent squeeze, and then began working it slowly in rhythm with my thrusts.

“Yes, oh God, yes, fffuu—oh my…faster, yeah, like that…”

His mumbling was enough to drive me crazy. I stayed over him, finding that angle again, and began my final rise in speed, grabbing his hip with my free hand and holding us tight together. I thrust harder and deeper, jerking his erection furiously, and feeling the waiting sensation run all through his body.

The last few seconds were madness, with his movements sending the headboard into the wall so loudly the neighbors no doubt heard, and his staggered, slipped gasps and cries as he came most assuredly waking the neighbors on the _other_ side of his flat. 

When he came, he clenched up so tight around me for such a prolonged moment that I exploded just seconds later, pulling out quickly and spilling all over my hand and his stomach, gasping and squeezing our erections together until we both had gone still.

“Oh my God. Holy…shit…” 

I fell on top of him, catching my weight with my hands, overwhelmed by the pounding of my heart and the breathing I couldn’t catch.

He looked dead, his chest rising unsteadily, his eyes closed--and the biggest grin I’d ever seen splattered across his face. I gave a shaky laugh at the expression on his face. We were glued together by semen and sweat and I didn’t care.

Only he had the sense to grab a discarded t-shirt from the floor and clean up the worst of our mess. I was halfway to unconsciousness by then, throbbing still, and able to feel the hot, tight clench of his muscles around me still.

I remember him sliding into my arms; I remember his lips all over my face and neck. But it wasn’t long before I fell into a deep sleep.

*

The next morning, after a long shower, I was rewarded with the view of him wandering the flat wearing nothing but sweatpants and a grin.

I interrupted his coffee making to peek at his tattoo. Having leave to tug down his sweatpants on a whim was more fun than I thought it would be.

“Mm?” he hummed questioningly.

“Just making sure I didn’t smudge it.”

He laughed. “You can’t smudge it, silly hobbit.”

“Yeah,” I agreed emptily, not really caring, and pressed him back into the counter and kissed him.

“You staying?” he asked, trying to act as though he didn’t mind my possible leaving.

I pulled back, giving him a look that made my answer clear: he would have to physically remove me if he wanted me to leave, because I wasn’t going anywhere. 

I stroked his hip and patted the material of his pants back over the tattoo. I grinned, took his face in my hands, and kissed him again--not having to say a word more than that.


End file.
